


Closer to Safe

by m_class



Series: 2x10 and onwards fix-it fics [2]
Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fix-It, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Mention of Minor Character Death, Michael Deserves A Hug, Nightmares, Psychological Trauma, Season 2 Episode 11 "Perpetual Infinity", Spoilers, appropriate amount of attention being paid to Michael's physical and psychological trauma, by the medical staff, mentions of suffocation, mentions of torture, the fix-it being an even somewhat, was suggested as a tag over on Tumblr so let's see if we can make it a thing here too ;)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-29 18:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18299312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m_class/pseuds/m_class
Summary: After the events of 2x10 and 2x11, Tracy Pollard and Mirror Georgiou collaborate to ensure that Michael Burnham gets some of the rest--and care--that she needs.





	Closer to Safe

**Author's Note:**

> This week's fix-it fic is also being yeeted onto the page with extremely minimal editing due to real life and fandom busy-ness, so apologies for any typos! This one is canon-compliant to Michael's (ugh) death scene in 2x10, with the fix-it being that she at least gets some care and support afterwords.

“Commander Burnham, please report to sickbay.”

The summons comes as Michael is pulling up the zip on her uniform. The clock blinks 05:52; if she reports to sickbay, she’ll be late for alpha shift, but the medical staff has presumably logged the summons into Discovery's scheduling system, and the crew will arrange cover for her as long as she is tied up with sickbay.

Yawning, she checks her hair again and swallows the rest of her tea before applying a coat of lip gloss and slipping out the door. As she makes her way through the halls toward sickbay, Michael is already mentally allocating the amount of time she is likely to spend there—presumably Dr. Culber or Dr. Pollard have decided they want to check on her newly-regenerated pulmonary tissue, which hopefully will mean no more than a quick scan. At this time of the morning, sickbay should be quiet; Ash and the rest of the crew injured by Control’s attack in Leland’s body have already been released to quarters.

 _Check on Ash,_ Michael adds to her mental to-do list, then glances down, biting her lip. There was one fatality, and she can feel the ache in her chest at the thought of a crewmember she barely knew, lying in the ship’s morgue.

How many more crew will they lose, fighting Control?

Turning her thoughts to the present, Michael steps out of the turbolift, running over today’s to-dos in her head and quickening her footsteps in preparation for getting in and out of sickbay as quickly as possible.

When the doors of sickbay swoosh open, however, the sight that greets her is not one she is expecting.

Dr. Pollard stands at one of the computer monitors, tapping away entering data, just as Michael has seen her and the other medical professionals do in other idle moments. Next to her, however, Philippa is lounging against the computer bank, today garbed in a midnight blue leather jacket with a high collar and asymmetrical neckline. Both of them look up when Michael approaches.

“Good morning, Commander,” Dr. Pollard says crisply. “I called you here to check in before your off-duty time begins.”

Michael blinks, and Tracy must catch her befuddlement.

“I know that we’ve been lax about this policy since the war, but regulations are clear that after a major traumatic event, crewmembers are to be given twenty-four hours off duty and assessed back to leave, light duty or fully duty at that time,” she says, her voice growing more gentle. “If you’ll hop up on the exam table, I’m going to take a few chest scans to make sure everything is healing up nicely, and then you can be on your way back to your quarters for some rest.”

Michael blinks again. “Doctor, we’re in the middle of a crisis—"

“Michael,” says Tracy softly, and Michael startles slightly at the sound of her given name. She’s heard it in Tracy’s voice often enough; has shared enough off-duty meals and conversations with Tracy to reciprocate, though her mental form of address still tends to revert to ‘Dr. Pollard’ when they are both on duty. “In the last twenty-four hours, you have endured multiple serious traumas. We’re not going to push you to remain on duty. And if anyone does,” she adds, voice hardening, “they will answer to me.”

Michael shakes her head. “Control—”

“Is our problem,” Philippa drawls, unpeeling herself from the computer bank. “And as the de facto leader of the Section 31 forces on this ship—”

“Philippa, given that that’s you and Ash, I’m not sure why you’re using that as a claim to authority here—”

 _“As_ the de facto leader of the Section 31 forces on this ship, I am here to ratify Dr. Pollard’s recommendation.”

“Agent Georgiou appears to have an excellent grasp of Starfleet regulations. When it suits her,” Tracy says drily, picking up a PADD. “Now, Michael, if you’ll just sign here, it states that you are going off duty until tomorrow morning voluntarily under regulations, and have not been formally relieved of duty, but understand that you will receive a psychological evaluation to determine fitness for duty following your initial recovery period.”

Michael opens her mouth to protest, to refuse, to _make_ Tracy relieve her of duty if she’s that damned sure about this, then closes it again.

Her eyes itch with exhaustion, it still hurts to breathe with her newly-healed lungs, and there is a pain deep in her chest that she is fairly certain has nothing to do with her injuries.

Gloomily, she reaches for the PADD, signing with her finger.

“Well, _now_ I’m glad that you didn’t take the bet,” Philippa mutters to Tracy, just loud enough for Michael to hear.

“Thank you both,” Tracy says briskly, ignoring her. It is beginning to feel to Michael as though Tracy is treating Philippa with the same cool, professional efficiency she would a radioactive substance, observing good safety practice by neither shrinking away in fear and bobbling the vial nor taking a chance on getting too close to it.

“Anything to bring a glimmer of sanity to this vessel,” Philippa says, leaning against the computer bank again. “Even in my own universe, I would not permit a valued crewman to remain on-duty in a state of physical and psychological collapse,” she adds, with an undertone to her words that sounds suspiciously like concern. “They would be much too vulnerable to being dispatched by even their more incompetent underlings. A _completely_ unnecessary waste of talent,” she finishes, but though she rolls her eyes to sell gory point, Michael gets the distinct impression that her heart isn't in the performance.

She glances at Philippa again, still not used to the shift in the other woman that she has noticed since she first woke from unconsciousness. Philippa’s typical coldness has faded slightly from her eyes, her expression softer and warmer than Michael is accustomed to.

The shift, however, does not make her look more like the original Philippa. That Philippa’s eyes were full of a sparkling, dancing kind of warmth, shot through with an inherently bright energy even at times of stillness and sadness. This Philippa’s eyes do not dance. To the extent that they have changed, it had been a softening, not a brightening.

“Why are you going along with this, Philippa?" she prods. "You’re not exactly a champion of Starfleet regulations."

Philippa is silent for several long moments. Michael is just beginning to think that she is going to ignore the question entirely when she speaks.

“You were right." Her voice is flat and quiet. “On Kronos. I did not wish to see you die again.” She turns away from Michael’s eyes. “Now, I have.”

Michael stares at her.

Turning back to Michael, she adds, still with that careful flatness in her voice, “There is nothing I can do to change that past. But I intend to see that you come to no further flagrantly unnecessary harm today.”

Michael continues watching her, a strange lump of emotion rising in her throat.

“Although I assure you that you shouldn’t expect me to jump in front of a sword for you, or any similar dramatics,” Philippa adds. Raising her voice slightly and glancing upwards, as though addressing the ceiling, she adds, “And I certainly would do no such thing to save this benighted galaxy.”

“Philippa,” says Michael, feeling very tired in a way that has nothing to do with her prior exhaustion, “why are you arguing with the ceiling?”

Philippa purses her lips, sneering slightly. “ _Some people_ think they know everything.”

“Right.” Michael rubs her eyes, dismissing Philippa’s latest eccentricity with a shake of her head. “Is there anything else you need, Dr. Pollard?”

“I have…” Tracy pokes the PADD screen in a few more places, then sets it down with smart click. “...All your paperwork filled out. Report here for your psych evaluation this time tomorrow, and I’ll recommend further leave, light duty, or regular duty. In the meantime,” she says, tipping her head toward Michael with a smile, “get some rest, Commander.”

There is a strange look of relief in Philippa’s eyes at Tracy’s words, along with a measure of what looks strangely like respect. Is she expecting that Tracy will keep Michael off duty, even during an interstellar crisis?

Whatever Philippa thinks, Michael knows that that is unlikely to happen. They need her on the bridge, and she is still capable of performing her duties. She has pushed cataclysmic pain aside to do her job before, and she can do it again now.

After all, the fate of the universe is resting on her; on the crew. She has to.

In the meantime...

Despite Tracy’s suggestion that Michael rest in her quarters, there is plenty Michael can be doing even while ostensibly off-duty.

Michael tilts her head to the side, silently planning. She'll check in on Ash, to start with, then go to Engineering to help analyze the data from the Red Angel suit, which is something she might very well do during her off-duty hours on any other day and therefore doesn’t count as going back on duty. Then—

“I will escort you to your quarters, Michael,” Philippa says, quirking an eyebrow. “We certainly wouldn’t want you to get…lost…along the way.”

“Thank you, Agent Georgiou,” Tracy says, with a hint of genuine warmth in her tone, as she turns to pick up another PADD, tapping away at it.

Philippa waves a languid hand. “My ‘guest quarters’ on this ship are a disgrace. I welcome any opportunity to delay returning to them.”

Michael sighs. “Sure, Philippa.”

“Section 31 may have their inadequacies,” Philippa adds, her lip curling in a slight sneer, “but the decoration and general outfitting of their vessels surpasses the bland dormitory aesthetic of this Starfleet ship by far.”

“Sure, Philippa," Michael sighs, turning toward the door. "Thank you, Dr. Pollard."

“Would you like me to drop by later?” Tracy says softly, as Michael steps away from her. “Not as a doctor, but as your friend.”

 _Friend._ Michael knows she has a friendly relationship with Tracy—dual relationships are parr for the course on a starship, and she certainly considers Hugh and Tracy to be more than colleagues—but she has never been sure if their friendly acquaintanceship has crossed into territory that could be defined as friendship.

Apparently, to Tracy, it has.

“If you’d rather rest, though,” Tracy adds, flashing her trademark smile, “I can wait to enjoy your company once you’re back on your feet.”

“I’d like to see you,” Michael finds herself saying quietly, “if you’re not too busy.”

“Nothing to do but laundry once I get off shift,” says Tracy cheerfully, raising her eyesbrows, “and I’d rather talk with you than with my uniform jackets.”

Michael feels herself smiling despite herself, as much at the lameness of the attempt at humor as at the humor itself.

_Friend._

When is the last time she has had an entire off-duty conversation with someone who considers her a _friend?_

“It would be nice,” she says softly, “to talk to a friend.”

Tracy smiles and nods at her again before turning back to the computer bank.

Glancing at Philippa, who is lurking at her elbow, Michael adds, “Not that you don’t qualify as a friend, Philippa.”

“Oh, I take no offense, Michael,” Philippa says brightly as she follows Michael to the doors. “I consider myself more of a concerned enemy.”

Michael rolls her eyes as the sickbay doors swish shut behind them.

 

Michael wakes gasping for breath, her arms pushing away from her as she strains against restraints that are not there. The darkness around her is disorienting, confusing, and she blinks, her mind slowly returning to the present and to the quiet darkness of her bedroom, silent but for the faint hum of the ship’s engines and the rasping of her own breath.

She isn’t on Essof. She is on Discovery.

She is…

 _I am safe,_ she tells herself. But even in her head, the words don’t sound particularly convincing.

Wrapping her arms around herself, Michael rubs her hands up and down her upper arms absentmindedly, trying to steady her breathing. Her chest still aches slightly, her throat raw. Is it the tenderness of newly healed tissue, or the tightness of unshed tears?

The image of her mother’s face fills her mind, and Michael squeezes her eyes shut, rubbing her arms again. The darkness is too dark, the silence too silent, her room too still and too familiar when everything, _everything_ , has changed.

Opening her tired and itchy eyes, she is staring at the wall in front of her and trying to think of nothing when the door chimes.

Right. Tracy.

Slipping off the bed, Michael pads to the door, still in her pajamas, and presses the unlock to send it swishing open.

Tracy is standing there in her civvies, and her eyebrows furrow in a flash of what looks like alarm as she takes in Michael’s appearance. Michael belatedly realizes that she must look like hell, her eyes still swollen with half-shed tears.

“Come in,” she say softly, then as Tracy enters, “I’m sorry I—”

Sorry what? That she is exhausted? That she has failed? That everything has failed? That everything has shifted and changed and everything is going wrong?

She realizes that she is staring blankly into space as the doors shut behind Tracy. “I haven’t gotten much sleep,” she says faintly.

Tracy smiles gently at her. “That makes sense,” she says. “You must have a lot on your mind.”

Michael nods, and all at once she is crying, tears trickling from her eyes as she wraps her arms around herself in a silent sob.

“Oh, Michael,” Tracy breathes, opening her arms, and Michael steps forward, stumbling into Tracy's arms as though moving through the blurred space of a dream. “It’s okay,” Tracy says, her arms coming up to wrap securely around Michael's torso. “It’s okay.”

“I’m—” Michael begins to sob in earnest, her heaving breaths making her regenerated pulmonary tissue ache. Some small part of her is cringing in mortification, to have invited Tracy in and promptly collapsed onto her, even as Tracy’s arms stay firm around her, holding her. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” She sniffs, raising a trembling hand to scrub the tears from her eyes. “Didn’t mean to break down on you—”

“It’s okay,” Tracy says softly. “It’s okay. You’ve been through more in the last twenty-four hours than many an officer faces in a dozen years. It’s okay to cry. It’s okay.”

“I can—you can come back later,” Michael tells her, through another sob. “You—there’s a crisis and you’re, and everyone’s working so hard, and I just need some time to—to—I don’t need to keep you here.”

Tracy untangles herself from Michael slightly, but instead of stepping toward the door, she wraps one arm around her, leading her toward the low couch next to the door. “Nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Michael begins to weep again in earnest, an avalanche of images from the last day and a half flooding her as Tracy settles them on the couch and pulls Michael gently toward her so that Michael’s head rests against her shoulder. Tracy’s arm wraps securely around Michael’s back, holding her up as Michael’s body shakes with sobs until eventually, her sobs fade into shaky breaths. Tracy rubs her back absently as she stares at the quiet stillness of her quarters. She is sleepy, suddenly, exhaustion making her eyelids droop as she stifles a yawn. The idea of climbing back into bed makes her recoil internally, but she isn’t sure she can stay awake much longer, either.

“I think I’ll get some rest, now,” she says hoarsely. “Thank you for—for listening. For everything.”

“Do you want me to stay here for a while?” Tracy asks quietly.

Michael’s eyes widen despite herself. “Yes,” she finds herself whispering. “I’d—yes. Thank you. I'm sorry, I'm sorry that I'm...”

“Nowhere else I’d rather be,” Tracy repeats softly. “I’ll stay here, if you want to climb back into bed. Or you can sleep here, Michael, if you want to.”

“Thank you,” Michael whispers again, not moving from Tracy’s side, and Tracy settles back against the back of the couch, pulling Michael gently with her.

Letting herself droop more heavily against Tracy’s shoulder, Michael closes her eyes. Tracy rubs her thumb reassuringly across her arm, squeezing her closer for a moment. “You’re okay. It’s all gonna be okay,” she murmurs, and it’s a good lie, a comforting lie, the kind of lie whose warmth could knit together the spaces between stars. “It’s all gonna be okay. You can rest now. You can sleep."

Michael finds that she does want to sleep, more than anything, now, here with Tracy’s arm around her shoulders and the faint drone of the room’s refrigeration unit starting up again, blending with the hum of the engines. Somehow, leaning against the warmth of Tracy’s side, she no longer fears so strongly that she is going to fall asleep and wake up back on Essof, but feels, instead, something closer to safe.

“It’s okay,” Tracy says again, and there is the reassuring sound of a half-smile in her voice. “It’s okay, Michael. You can sleep.”

Michael sleeps.


End file.
